


Lazarus

by Jaywalker_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaywalker_Holmes/pseuds/Jaywalker_Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continues from His Last Vow. The British Government needs Sherlock Holmes to neutralise the biggest threat they have ever faced. The Holmes family has been hiding a dark, dark secret. With Mycroft compromised and John torn between his wife and his best friend, will Sherlock be able to save the day once again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“…but I believe I’m bleeding internally; my pulse is erratic and you may have to restart my heart on the way…”_

_***_

_“The East Wind takes us all in the end.”_

_***_

_“You know what happened to the other one.”_

_***_

 

“Sherlock, really, have a care.” The British Government leant back on the couch, sighing dramatically.

Sherlock Holmes, rolled up in a sheet, looked up at his brother from the carpet, his mercurial eyes taking in the lines of exhaustion that his brother failed to hide.

“I am fine, Mycroft,” he grumbled. “There is no need for you to hold me prisoner in your castle.”

Mycroft sighed again.

“Brother-mine, you cannot keep doing this,” he said softly. He slid from the couch to the carpet and lay next to his brother. “Please, I beg of you, stop.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can,” he said in a small voice. “I promised John and Mary…”

Mycroft took his brother’s hand in his own. “You have not only fulfilled your vow, little brother, you have gone over and beyond the call of duty. There is nothing more for you to do.” He sighed yet again. “There are people other than John Watson who love you and need you…and frankly, given recent developments, I am no longer sure that John should be at the top of that list.”

“Do I hear sentiment, brother dear?” Sherlock mocked.

“Yes.”

Sherlock Holmes turned his head and stared at the exhausted visage of his brother, the most powerful man in the United Kingdom, and, quite possibly, the world.

“Caring is not an advantage,” the detective whispered.

“I know,” the older Holmes said. “But I’m afraid I cared for you too much and too early – a long time before I learnt that, and, as such, it is an incurable condition.”

Sherlock remained silent, his mind taking him back to every instance in his life where his brother had been there to help him – regardless of whether that help had been appreciated or not. To his surprise, he saw that Mycroft had always been there for him, even when Sherlock had tried to push him away or left him behind for other people. Despite their façade of sibling rivalry, the older Holmes had always taken care of his little brother in every way he could. He remembered his brother saying “Your loss would break my heart.”

Sherlock sighed, fatigued beyond measure – physically and emotionally. His gunshot wound still hurt, and he felt drained from all the drama with Mary and Magnussen…and his exile, which was cut short because Jim Moriarty appeared on every screen in the country.

“The Watsons are safe,” Mycroft said quietly. “Security details are in place for them, as well as our parents.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied. He propped himself up on an elbow. “Why am I here, Mycroft?”

“Convalescence.”

Sherlock snorted. “Have you found the perpetrator yet? Moriarty is definitely dead.”

Mycroft shook his head.

“Sherlock…there is something you should know,” he said softly. “I am not sure if it is relevant to our present dilemma or not, but you should know the truth before we go any further.”

Sherlock frowned at his brother.

“How much do you remember of your infancy?” Mycroft asked.

“I remember everything after my third birthday,” Sherlock said haughtily. “Everything that I haven’t purposely deleted, that is.”

Mycroft nodded. “I promised Mummy I would not say a word to you unless it became important. I believe it is time for you to know now.”

Sherlock stared.

Grimacing, Mycroft sat up. “We have another sibling,” he said quietly.

Sherlock nodded. “I thought as much. Older than you, yes? I have some vague recollections of a young man in the house. Is he dead?”

Mycroft closed his eyes and shuddered. “No, Sherlock. He is not dead. He is the man behind Jim Moriarty. He is incarcerated – he has been, since a few months before your third birthday.”

Wide-eyed, Sherlock could only gape at his brother.

“Sherrinford was always the smartest of the lot,” Mycroft said quietly. “I worshipped the ground he walked on. He was ten years older than me. By fifteen, he had graduated. By twenty, he was running a criminal network. If I had not stumbled on to one of his criminal activities accidentally, he would never have been caught.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “What has this to do with Moriarty?”

“Jim was Sherrinford’s son. I have reason to believe he is not the only one.”

“How is that possible? Jim was older than me!” Sherlock cried.

“Biology, Sherlock. Puberty hits most people by fourteen. We believe Ford fathered Jim, Jack and Jon at fifteen. Of course, we did not know it back then. Triplets, Sherlock – and identical. Jim was the brains, obviously. Jack often played Rich Brook. Jon is the sane one – and possibly, the most dangerous. Jon is a mathematician, like Mummy.”

“We?”

“Mummy, Daddy and a few others in my line of work.”

“Are they looking to avenge Jim? Is that what this is?” Sherlock asked. “But that doesn’t make sense! If they wanted me to die in disgrace, I was already exiled and on a suicide mission – you’re never wrong. Why show their hand now?”

“Sherlock, do you really think I would have let you die in disgrace in Eastern Europe?”

Sherlock flushed and looked away as realisation dawned. “Mycroft Holmes’ pressure point is his junkie detective brother,” he quoted softly.

Mycroft nodded. Silence reigned for a few minutes.

“But I destroyed his network, Mycroft,” Sherlock said finally. “I am positive I did.”

Mycroft sighed. “Jim is gone, Sherlock, as is his network – you did a very thorough job.”

“Then…”

“Ford is still alive, and will be released soon on grounds of good behaviour. Jim was the loose cannon, but Jon and Jack will follow their father’s instructions.”

“Which are…?”

“Ford will kill me and acquire you. He was always fascinated by you.” Mycroft closed his eyes. “Sherlock, I need to train you to take over my job when I die. This country – and this world – cannot afford to lose both of us to Ford. He has no enmity with you, and I have taken steps to ensure your safety, especially in the event of my death. You must not let him take over.”

A cold fist closed around Sherlock’s heart. “Don’t be so fatalistic, brother,” he said lightly. “We won’t be rid of you so soon.”

Mycroft gave him a half-hearted smile. “I am the pragmatic one, little brother.”

“So, I’m here to learn your job?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft nodded.

“And what about my job?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I will try my best to survive to save you the inconvenience of taking over.”

“You’d better.” Sherlock shifted and laid his head in his brother’s lap. “I am not sure what I would do without you.”

Absently, Mycroft’s fingers stroked through Sherlock’s dark curls. The detective sighed contentedly and closed his eyes.

“Mary might be of use, you know,” Sherlock said quietly.

“She shot you,” Mycroft said in a dead voice. “The only reason that woman is still alive is because she is with child, John Watson loves her and you love John Watson.”

Sherlock smirked. “She owes me a favour.”

Mycroft felt a smile creep up his lips. Sherlock may not be as smart as him, but he was deliciously ingenious – and often, diabolical. A ray of hope was suddenly visible to him. If he and Sherlock could work together – then maybe, just maybe, they could all come out of this situation alive and unharmed.

“What did you have in mind?” the British Government asked.

Two days later, John Watson opened his door to find Mycroft Holmes standing on his porch, looking pale and drawn.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft said.

“Jesus, you look dead on your feet,” John remarked, ushering him in. “Is everything all right? Is Sherlock ok?”

Mycroft smiled tiredly. “Actually, it is for Sherlock that I am here to request a favour,” he told the doctor.

“Of course,” John said immediately. “What do you need me to do?”

Mycroft hesitated. “It might be a bit much to ask, but…”

John regarded him silently.

Mycroft leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. When he reopened them a few moments later, Mary had joined her husband and they were both regarding him curiously.

“Do you know anything about why Sherlock jumped off the roof?” Mycroft asked quietly.

John and Mary shared a look. “He said Moriarty had to be stopped.”

Mycroft smiled thinly. “True enough, but not the whole truth.” He sighed. “My brother killed himself because Moriarty had you, Mrs Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade at gunpoint. We could have taken a less traumatic option – and less injurious to Sherlock – if that had not been the case.”

The Watsons remained silent.

“During the two year “hiatus” – as you call it – Sherlock travelled through the world, destroying every bit of Moriarty’s network that he could find. The last bit was in Serbia. By the time he reached Serbia, however, my brother had run himself ragged, and he was captured. They tortured him for information, obviously. It was over a week before we were able to locate him. By then, the situation had deteriorated to such an extent that I had to go undercover myself to retrieve him. I was able to extract him from Serbia. Even half-dead, he still ran to see you as soon as we returned to London and we patched him up.” Mycroft shot John a pitying look. “Of course, I warned him that you would not be very pleased to see him – but Sherlock is a child at times, and he couldn’t fathom that his friend wouldn’t be happy at his resurrection. You proceeded to make him bleed – understandable, of course. How were you to know that he was already walking around with broken bones, lacerations, contusions and PTSD?”

John swore under his breath.

“As luck would have it, Magnussen chose to abduct you. It is the only thing I am grateful to Magnussen for. Sherlock, of course, jumped into the fire to pull you out – and your friendship was on the mend. Of course, Sherlock knew he was going to lose you to your wife soon enough…but when my brother loves, he loves with everything he has. So, he busied himself with your wedding preparations. I am not sure if you realise what caused the drug relapse. Anyway, his drug habits are irrelevant now.”

John was trembling by now, and Mary had an arm around his shoulders.

“Is there any reason why you are telling us all this now, Mr Holmes?” Mary asked archly.

Mycroft blinked. “As John would tell you, Mrs Watson, I never divulge information unless it is required.”

“Clearly you want us to do something for Sherlock which we would not do otherwise, and you are trying to gain sympathy for him,” Mary said.

Mycroft laughed and shook his head. “I really cannot imagine why Sherlock chooses to protect you, Mrs Watson, despite your attempts to murder him not once, but thrice. But then again, he may not have picked up on the attempts except the time you shot him point blank. He can be quite blind to the faults of those he loves.”

John turned to his wife, and she shrunk visibly.

Mycroft levelled his raptor gaze at the ex-assassin. “The only reason you are still alive, Mrs Watson, is because you are loved by John Watson, and are carrying his child, and my brother loves John Watson too much to hurt his wife. If you weren’t, not even Sherlock would be able to keep me away from you.”

Mycroft turned to John. “Sherlock made a vow to protect the three of you – and he has. He was shot by your wife for his efforts, John, and he still endangered his life to reconcile you. He took on Magnussen, and killed him when no other alternative remained to keep your wife safe, even though it meant giving up his own life. He knew it would end with either his incarceration – and everyone knows what happens to policemen and detectives in prison – or in his exile, which would mean a fatal infiltration mission.”

John started. “He said you told him it was for six months.”

Mycroft smiled bitterly. “It was an MI6 mission that would prove fatal to him in six months, by my estimate, as I told him. I had asked him to decline it before it became the last resort.”

“And you’re never wrong,” John replied. He rubbed his face. “Jesus.”

“The only reason my brother is back in the country is because Moriarty showed up.”

“But Moriarty is dead,” John said.

“Jim Moriarty is. There are two more. And then there’s their father.” Mycroft locked eyes with John. “The father of the Moriarty triplets is my oldest and most dangerous enemy. He is smarter than Sherlock and I put together, and he will stop at nothing to get to Sherlock. He views Sherlock as his property, and he will happily go through me. He has been incarcerated for three decades now, and I was responsible for his arrest.”

“What do you need me to do?” John asked, his soldier springing forth.

“I need you to keep Sherlock safe,” Mycroft said simply. “I have reason to believe that I will not survive this affair, and Sherlock must be my successor – there is no one else capable enough. He has agreed to learn as much as I can teach him till the inevitable attack on me takes place – even if I survive the assault, I am likely to be incapacitated, and attempts to eliminate me will continue until it is successful. However, Sherlock must be protected at all costs. I would not be exaggerating if I said that the fate of England, as well as that of the civilised world, rests on keeping Sherlock alive and well and established as my successor.”

John and Mary stared at him, dumbfounded.

“I need you to move into my townhouse till this affair is concluded. It is the safest place at the moment, and best for Sherlock’s recuperation. He has not yet recovered – physically or psychologically, from his recent ordeals. We have a medical team at hand all the time, of course, so Mrs Watson’s delivery will be conducted under the best of care. I would, however, advise you to choose the godparents with care.”

“Sherlock,” John and Mary said at once.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on, who else would we trust enough to be the Godfather to our child?” Mary said.

Mycroft nodded, a satisfied look flickering across his face. His face hardened. “Mrs Watson,” he said, his voice soft and dangerous. “If Sherlock comes to any more harm by your hand, directly or indirectly, I will forget you are John Watson’s wife.”

John met the British Government’s gaze unflinchingly. “You won’t need to,” he promised solemnly. It was not a husband’s promise; it was a soldier’s.

Mycroft nodded, pleased. “I trust you will be able to pack up in an hour?”

John nodded.

“A car will be here in an hour.” Mycroft bid the Watsons a curt goodbye and left.

John turned to his wife. “What do you need me to pack?” he asked.

The crushing betrayal in his eyes was more than Mary could face. “John, I…”

John held up a hand. “Listen very carefully, Mary or AGRA or whichever character you are at the moment – there are two things that keep John Watson alive and happy. Sherlock Holmes, and the little family with his wife and child. I can love again, find another wife and have another baby. It will be difficult, but I can do that – I _have_ done that. There is, however, only one Sherlock Holmes.”

Mary stared at him, wide-eyed.

“I told you that your past problems are your business, and I will honour my word. Sherlock Holmes, however, is off-limits. If one hair on his head is harmed, you will lose your husband. Is that clear?”

Mary nodded fearfully.

Mycroft Holmes smiled as the conversation played on his phone. Pleased, he forwarded the attachment to his brother, hoping that John’s concern – love – would put a halt to Sherlock’s mission to self-destruct.

Sometimes, caring could be an advantage.

Sherlock heard John’s warning to Mary with a small smile on his face. He knew Mary wouldn’t hurt him unless she thought it would help her in some way – but with John issuing an ultimatum, she would probably be much more careful.

Things were moving according to the Holmes brothers’ plans. Sherlock frowned when his brother returned, displeased at Mycroft’s exhausted appearance. Mycroft was an impregnable fort – cracks in his façade would mean doom for anyone else.

“You need rest,” Sherlock told his brother as soon as he entered.

Mycroft sighed. “No rest for the wicked, brother dear,” he replied with a quirk of his lips.

Sherlock took his brother’s hand – a gesture so uncharacteristic that Mycroft appeared shocked. “Brother dear,” Sherlock whispered. “We can’t afford to have you down.”

Mycroft ruffled Sherlock’s hair affectionately. “You are the East Wind, little brother. You will pluck the unworthy and restore balance to the earth. I know I never say it, but I am an incredibly proud big brother.”

“That’s what Magnussen said,” Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself.

Mycroft shrugged. “He was smart and perceptive and a threat to this nation. You did well to end him, Sherlock…though it would have been much better if you or your doctor had not been seen on the premises at all.” He smiled. “But you are not an assassin; stealth is not your forte. You are a dragon slayer with all the dramatic accoutrements that come with it.”

Sherlock huffed.

Mycroft’s face hardened. “Never again, Sherlock. Never again will you jeopardise yourself in such a fashion. Promise me.”

Sherlock looked away. “I will try, brother. You have my word.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary move in...

John and Mary Watson entered the townhouse to the sound of melancholy violin notes. John had been to Mycroft’s home before, and greeted the butler, Jeffrey. Mary was ushered away to the guest room readied for the Watsons, and John made his way towards the music. Whether Sherlock knew it or not, his moods and feelings were always expressed through his music.

And the sad, lonely tune broke John’s heart.

Sherlock stopped as soon as he heard his doctor approach.

“Hello, John,” he said softly, with a small smile on his pale features.

John frowned. Sherlock didn’t look much better than Mycroft. He knew that the Holmes brothers had not yet told him the full details of what they were facing, but anything that had both of them looking so drawn could not be good news. A shiver ran down his spine. Sherlock was not enjoying this particular game.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock said. While John had been ruminating, the detective had moved to stand right in front of him.

John enveloped his best friend in a hug.

“You mad, brilliant, heroic _idiot_ ,” John muttered. “Don’t you ever dare to do something like that again.”

Sherlock chuckled. It felt good to have John back, and though he would never admit it, he had missed John’s affection.

“That’s an oxymoron, John,” the detective said as John held his shoulders and examined him with a doctor’s eye.

“Strip,” John commanded.

“People will talk,” Sherlock retorted.

“I don’t care,” John commanded. “You nearly died _again_ – and I’m not taking any chances.”

Sherlock made a face. “I’m fine.”

John was not above a little manipulation. “Sherlock, please…for me.”

“Mycroft already had his medical team examine me.”

“But they are not _your doctor_ , are they?”

Sherlock smiled. “All right,” he conceded. “Let’s go to my room.”

John cursed out loud when he examined Sherlock properly. Mycroft had not been exaggerating; if anything, he had understated. Sherlock was really not in a good state; his body bore witness to his battles. The scars, bruises and bandages did nothing to diminish his beauty, though. If anything, Sherlock was even more beautiful now. John shut the door on that line of thought and watched his friend dress again.

Sherlock handed him a file and John flipped through the test reports and prescriptions of Mycroft’s medics, and realised he would have to keep an extremely close eye on his friend to ensure he actually took his pills.

“You are not leaving my line of sight,” he told the detective firmly.

Sherlock scowled. “You are overreacting.”

“I don’t care if I am!” John’s temper snapped. “I won’t – _I can’t_ – lose you again!”

Sherlock stared at the carpet, unable to respond.

“You are a married man, John,” Sherlock whispered, not looking up at his friend. “You have your wife and child to look after. I will be fine.”

John rubbed his face. “I have you to look after, too,” he said quietly. “Your brother gave us some details – but not enough. I trust you will tell me more?”

Sherlock hesitated.

“You have my word that nothing you say to me will be repeated to Mary unless you or Mycroft expressly say so,” John said, his voice sombre.

Sherlock nodded and launched into his tale.

John was pale and shaking by the time he finished. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “One of you gone bad…”

Sherlock shook his head. “Sherrinford his smarter,” he said. “Mycroft said so. He is…”

“…never wrong,” John finished. “Yes, I know.” He rubbed his face again. “Jesus. What do we do, Sherlock? If that maniac is even half of what Mycroft thinks he is, especially with two more Moriarty brothers, we need both you and Mycroft…and your brother seems…sort of…resigned to his own death.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “Mycroft has been under a lot of pressure lately.”

“Are you all right with this?” John asked. “With Jim being your…nephew?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I wonder if Jim knew.”

“So…the other two…what are they called again?”

“Jacques Frost and Jonathan Mason. Jack is a small-time actor and spends most of his time in and out of mental institutions. Jon is a Professor of Mathematics at UCL.”

Something clicked in John’s mind. “Hold on,” he said. “This professor – married? To Kate or Cathy or something similar?”

Sherlock nodded and beamed at John as they realised the same thing. “Her husband is three people?” Sherlock asked.

John was frantically searching through his emails. “Found it!” he crowed. “Kate Mason, married to Professor Jon Mason!”

“Good work, John,” Sherlock told him. “Let’s look at that mail again.”

_“Dear Mr Holmes:_

_My husband is three people, I am quite sure. He has three distinct personalities (Playful Jon, Crazy Jon and Normal Jon), and even subtly different physical features (his moles and freckles move around), so it may not be split personalities, and he has no known family. I have already consulted a psychiatrist, a demonologist, a genealogist and now I’m coming to you. I have put up with this for five years, and I am at the end of my tether because Crazy Jon is appearing more and more often. Playful Jon disappeared about two and a half years ago. Please help. I fell in love with and married Normal Jon, and I want my husband back._

_Regards, Kate Mason”_

“You said they were triplets – and I mailed her,” John said. “She wrote back with a thank you, and that she had spoken to her husband, and he had apologised for the deception. He told her that the triplets had been separated at birth and met quite by accident, and it was a harmless joke they played, pretending to be another. He assured her that one was dead and the other institutionalised, and she would not face this issue again.” John frowned. “It fits the facts, but…”

“Moriarty’s face was plastered all over media, John. How did she not recognise him?”

“You think she’s in on it? But then, why would she contact you?”

“She has to be. If she notices differing mole patterns on her husband, she can hardly be unobservant enough to miss the face.”

John could hardly argue with that. “Why contact you, then?”

“Boredom?”

“She’s one, too?” John sighed. “I’m sick and tired of psychopaths.”

“You could change your name and move to Burkina Faso.”

John laughed. “Only if you come along.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’m one, too.”

“Yes, but I’m miserable without you,” John quipped.

Sherlock smirked. John’s heart fluttered. _Not gay_ , he told himself firmly.

“So…should we get in touch with Kate Mason?” he asked instead.

Sherlock scowled. “My brother has me under house-arrest. I suppose we can send his minions, though.”

“Or you could send your best man,” John said.

Sherlock shook his head. “Too dangerous.”

“And when have I cared about that?”

“You are a family man now, John.”

“You are my family, too, you idiot. You are mine to protect, too.”

“And you are clearly affected by Mary’s hormones.”

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I know sentiment makes you uncomfortable, and I am sorry to bleed feelings all over you, but you have to know how important you are to me.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock said softly. “And I also know that if it comes down to a choice between Mary and I, you will have to choose Mary, or you would never be able to forgive yourself or me.”

John shook his head.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What has my brother been saying to you?”

“Things you should have said to me much, much before.” John put a gentle hand on the detective’s shoulder. “You are not alone, Sherlock. You will always have me, whether you want me or not.”

“Mary makes you happy,” Sherlock said. “I will not take that away from you.”

“You make me happy, and she tried to take you away from me.”

“She didn’t have a choice. Magnussen…”

“There is always a choice,” John said sternly. “And what about the other two times?”

Sherlock stepped back, his face a picture of shock. “What other times?”

John stared. “You don’t know. You really don’t know.”

“Know what, John?”

“Mycroft said Mary tried to kill you three times…and that you had probably not noticed the other two attempts because you were blinded by sentiment.”

Sherlock’s face settled into a cold mask. “Get out, John. I need to think.”

With a sinking heart, John left his best friend and went in search of his wife. He needed to know the truth, and if he couldn’t get it from the Holmes brothers, he would get it from his wife.

He found Mary curled up on the bed, watching TV.

“What were the other two attempts?” John asked without preamble.

Mary blinked. “Really, you want to do this now?”

“Yes.” John stared at her levelly. “Would you prefer if I asked Mycroft?”

Mary sighed.

“I wasn’t really trying to kill him,” she said. “If I did, he would already be dead.”

“You stopped his heart. _Twice_.”

“I could have shot him through the head.” Mary switched off the TV. “He has done worse to you. Why are you so angry with me?”

“Because he faked his death to protect his friends. He sacrificed himself, gave up his life, his work, everything, to protect you, so I could be happy. You nearly killed him and he still did his best to reconcile us.” John looked away. “And you – you did nothing but manipulate me from the day we met. Sherlock does not know it yet – but I bet Mycroft does – you were working for Moriarty, weren’t you?”

“So you did read the pen drive.”

John shook his head. “I wish I had.” He fixed his eyes on his wife. “I still care for you, Mary. I hope you will not make me regret that.”

Mary tugged the blanket closer.

“When Magnussen put you in the fire and sent me to get Sherlock to rescue you, I injected him with a cocktail of drugs just before we got off the bike. It should have knocked him out – he should have been unable to think straight enough to get you out. He would have been trapped in the fire, and I would have pulled you out. I’d have tried to get him out, but failed. The drugs had no effect. I thought I might have ended up drugging his bloody coat instead of his skin.” She looked up at her husband. “It was a half-hearted attempt at best, trust me.”

John remained silent.

“The second time was at our wedding. I sent a drug dealer his way when he left; I thought he might overdose.” Mary stared at the blanket. “The third time, I shot him in Magnussen’s office. Obviously I missed any vital organ.”

John stared at his wife.

She smiled wistfully. “I am quite fond of him, you know. I didn’t like him at first – I thought he did you more harm than good, and that he might take you away from me…but then I realised that he loved you too much to do anything that would make you unhappy. And I made you happy.”

John said nothing.

“I know he makes you happy, too,” Mary said quietly. “I understand that you need him almost as much as he needs you. But he is not your pressure point, John; I am. I know you want to protect him. I will help you as much as I can, I promise. Sherlock brought you back to me, and he saved my life. I owe him for that. I always pay my debts.”

John nodded and left.

He came across Mycroft in the hallway. The British Government looked even more exhausted than before. He greeted John with a wan smile and stumbled.

“Jesus, Mycroft,” John swore as he rushed forward to steady the man. “What is wrong with you?”

“I am perfectly fine, John. Thank you for your concern.”

“I _am_ a fully qualified doctor, you know.”

Mycroft smiled slightly. “I do.”

“And I insist on a full check-up right now,” John said firmly. He spotted Sherlock across the hallway and called out.

Sherlock was by their side in an instant. “What happened?” he asked urgently.

Mycroft pushed John away and drew himself up. “Worry not, brother mine. A momentary lapse. Perhaps it would be prudent to get some sleep.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” John said. “Either you let me examine you or you get your medical team here to do so while I look over their prognosis.”

“They are perfectly qualified, Dr Watson,” Mycroft retorted.

“Yes, but they might be afraid of you,” John said simply. “Which may affect their ability to deal with you.”

Sherlock laughed and Mycroft sighed.

XXX

Mycroft had, predictably, overstretched himself. John gave him an earful and commandeered a room, putting both Holmes brothers to bed. He even threatened to call Mummy before Mycroft and Sherlock relented.

“We need you both functioning at full capacity,” he said firmly. “Not even you two can argue with that.”

Anthea teamed up with John and cleared Mycroft’s schedule for the next few days. The much-needed rest benefitted both brothers, and two days later, they had improved visibly. It helped that John made Sherlock happy, and seeing Sherlock happy made Mycroft happy.

On the third day, when Sherlock had wandered off to get his violin, Mycroft and John had a “grown up” talk.

“Thank you, John,” Mycroft said softly. “With you by his side, my brother will make it through.”

“With both of us by his side, Mycroft,” John corrected gently. “He needs you as much as he needs m – probably more.”

Mycroft’s silence spoke louder than words.

“You knew about Mary, didn’t you?” John asked. “You said she made three attempts on Sherlock’s life. You knew about the drugs at the fire and the dealer after the wedding. Why did you let it happen?”

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock’s drug tolerance is very high, John. That little cocktail took hours to take effect, and by that time we had already administered the…antidote, if you will. Sherlock had no idea; he had inhaled smoke and he had some rather painful burns. He barely paid attention to the medication being administered to him.” He sighed again. “He almost overdosed after your wedding. Luckily, I was waiting for him at Baker Street when he returned, and I was able to persuade him otherwise.”

“And you let Mary be.”

“She is your wife, John. Sherlock would never forgive me if I caused her harm.”

“But not anymore?”

“We have bigger threats to neutralise.” Mycroft’s eyes hardened. “I can deal with Sherlock’s hatred. I refuse to deal with his death. Sherlock must be protected at all costs, John, even from himself. I cannot stress this enough. It is absolutely vital that Sherlock lives.”

John smiled. “He will.”

Mycroft nodded gratefully.

“And so will you,” John added.

Mycroft shrugged. “Irrelevant.”

John opened his mouth to speak, but Anthea’s appearance cut him off.

“I’m afraid I have bad news, Sir,” she said. “We were unable to interrogate Kate Mason. She was found dead in her kitchen this morning. Her husband is in Vienna for a conference and is flying back as we speak.”

“Any clue who killed her?” John asked.

Anthea shook her head. “The police think it was an accident. She was electrocuted by a malfunctioning microwave oven.”

“He killed his wife so we couldn’t question her,” John muttered. “Jesus.”

“Status of #1 and #3?” Mycroft asked.

“#1 is still incarcerated. #3 is in therapy. His whereabouts are accounted for.”

“Intimate my brother, please.” Anthea nodded at Mycroft’s command and left.

Mycroft turned to John. “Sherlock trusts your wife, and I don’t. But then again, I don’t trust anyone except my brother, to an extent.” He levelled a steely look at the soldier. “However, I can promise you that no harm shall come to your wife until she betrays either you or Sherlock. Your child will be protected at all costs at all times.”

John nodded gratefully.

“This is too repetitive. It is tedious,” Mycroft complained.

John laughed. “You’re just like your brother,” he said.

Mycroft looked affronted.

Sherlock appeared, grinning ear to ear. “We have a case, John!”

“You are not leaving the house,” Mycroft said sternly.

“I will run away,” Sherlock threatened. “Put your minions around Baker Street if you must; I can’t stay here any longer. You are driving me mad.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “No.”

“Your fear is irrational. I am not putting up with you anymore,” Sherlock snapped.

“I am trying to keep you alive, you idiot!” Mycroft was close to losing his temper.

“What is the point of living if I can’t do anything I want?” Sherlock yelled. “I’d rather be dead!”

Mycroft sprang from his bed and towered over his little brother. “How dare you?” he demanded, his voice colder than ice. “You made me a promise, and you couldn’t even last a week.”

“I suppose you should have expected it then,” Sherlock snarled. “After all, when have I ever been anything but a disappointment to you, as you are so fond of reminding me again and again?”

“Why won’t you ever do as you are told?” Mycroft hissed.

“Why do you always need to control everything?” Sherlock shot back.

John threw up his arms. “Boys, calm down,” he said firmly.

“I am leaving,” Sherlock announced and stormed out.

Mycroft fell to his knees. John helped him up. As soon as he was upright, Mycroft waved him away.

“Go with him, John,” the British Government said. “Keep him safe. I will have your wife sent back to your home.”

John ran after his best friend.

An hour later, Anthea appeared. “Sir, both of them have escaped.”

“Ford and Jack?” Mycroft asked.

Anthea nodded.

“Very well,” Mycroft said. “Alert Sherlock and John. Double security and surveillance on my brother. He must not be left alone for a single moment.”

Mycroft called his parents after Anthea left. Mummy wanted to come over to London immediately, but he managed to dissuade them. No point in handing out more targets to Ford.

He called Sherlock next, but his stubborn little brother refused to answer the call. Sighing, he sent a text. _Ford and Jack are out. Be careful. - M_

Then, Mycroft Holmes locked himself in the bathroom and for the first time in three decades, broke down and wept.

XXX

One week later, Sherlock was taken.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly dialogues, I know...next chapter will have some action! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherrinford makes an entrance...

“Where is he?” John Watson asked, striding into the British Government’s office.

Mycroft looked up from the kanji document he was reading and raised an eyebrow.

“Sherlock has disappeared,” John said quietly. “Please tell me the security details you keep around him haven’t lost him.”

Mycroft pressed a button and Anthea appeared immediately.

“Locate Dragon Slayer. Code Red.” Mycroft’s voice was cold and brisk. Anthea nodded and left.

John’s lips twitched. “Dragon Slayer?”

Mycroft smirked. “What else would you call my brother, John?”

John chuckled. Then he remembered why he was here, and sobered. “He has not been seen for three days. Mrs Hudson said he went out on Monday morning with a client and hasn’t returned since. Molly texted him on Tuesday, but received no response. He usually doesn’t respond to her, just shows up by the next day, so she wasn’t worried until last night. Greg called him last night with a locked room triple murder – at least an 8 – and it went to voicemail. His text went unanswered. He called me this morning and we’ve checked all known boltholes, mobilised his homeless network, but no one seems to know anything. Calls are still going to voicemail and text messages are not being answered. His phone is not in Baker Street; we combed through the flat. That’s why I’m here.”

Mycroft sighed, sadness and concern shining in his usually cold eyes. “I wish you would not use me as the last resort where my brother is concerned.”

John shrugged. “You are the British Government; you have been visibly busy lately – I see you appearing in pictures everywhere these days. We wouldn’t want to inconvenience you if he’s just sulking in a broom cupboard at Bart’s.”

Mycroft looked straight at John and his raptor gaze, akin to Sherlock’s at his most intense, pierced through the doctor. “ _Nothing_ is more important to me than my brother, John. I would have thought you, of all people, would realise that.”

John nodded quietly. Magnussen’s voice floated in his ears. “Mycroft Holmes’ pressure point is his junkie detective brother.” He didn’t realise he had spoken out loud until he saw Mycroft’s face.

The British Government had his eyes tightly shut, his expression pained. It was the most vulnerable John had ever seen him.

“Indeed,” Mycroft whispered. His struggle to regain his ordinarily calm demeanour was eerily visible for a few moments before the Iceman slid into place.

It was fortunate that Mycroft had his control back, because Anthea came in almost immediately, her face pale and afraid.

“We have lost him, Sir. The last available footage is of Monday morning, at Paddington. He boarded the first train to Cardiff. The men who followed him have just been found dead. They appear to have been murdered on Monday – but someone has been checking in with the security team. We have pulled up Cardiff videos; he never arrived.” She looked sick.

“There is no surveillance video of my brother for over three days and no one raised an alarm?” Mycroft’s whisper was deadly.

“Video files were sent, Sir, but the staff supposed to review them did not. He spoke to the agents checking in and assumed all was well. We have him in custody and he is being interrogated as we speak.”

Mycroft lost it. “And how many times has this happened in the past?” he thundered.

Anthea lifted her chin. “I am personally seeing to it, Sir.” Her face was hard as stone, and John feared for every single person who had been too lazy to watch Sherlock’s tapes.

“Tracking?” Mycroft hissed.

“His phone appears to be still in Paddington. His subcutaneous chip has been deactivated.”

Mycroft rubbed his face tiredly. “Get Q to track his pacemaker. Minimal intrusion, limit further cardiac damage as much as possible and monitor diagnostics. Coordinates to my phone only.”

Anthea nodded, wide-eyed. “I’ll keep a medical response unit ready as well.”

Mycroft stood up. “Reschedule everything to next week. Dispatch Melas, Porlock and Wiggins to Baker Street immediately.”

“Yes, Sir,” Anthea replied and strode out.

John stared at Mycroft. “Sherlock has a pacemaker? Since when?”

“Since your wife shot him,” Mycroft replied. “Half his heart is synthetic. If my experimental medicine team had not interfered – twice, John – my brother would be dead. He was, in fact, dead for fifteen seconds the first time, and twenty six the second.” He smiled slightly. “But of course, Sherlock was loathe to inform you. You would have left your wife and child if you knew the truth, he surmised…and he had to keep his vow, didn’t he?”

John could only stare open-mouthed.

“My brother was wrong, of course. I told him, but he does so love to contradict me. You would not have left Mrs Watson even if she had murdered my brother successfully. Why would you? You _love_ her.” Mycroft spat furiously. Then his shoulders slumped and he rubbed his forehead tiredly. “But Sherlock likes to believe you love him, too – and I did not want to break his heart, so I did not bother to stop him,” he added softly.

“But Mary has been helping us,” John said.

“Of course she has,” Mycroft snapped. “Sherlock may be my pressure point, John, but do you honestly expect that I am incapable of keeping an ex-CIA rogue assassin in check?”

“You didn’t do anything when she shot him,” John said. “Or the other two times.”

“I respected Sherlock’s wishes,” Mycroft bit out. “Against my better judgment. I tire of this conversation. Have we not been over this issue enough times already?”

“Why?”

“Because Sherlock has never begged for anything in his life – especially not from me – until that day at the hospital when he lay recuperating from the gunshot wound your wife inflicted on him. Sherlock Holmes begged me to hold my tongue and my guns – for your happiness, Dr John Hamish Watson.”

John had lost his colour. “The other day, when you had come to our house and asked us to keep Sherlock safe…or when we spoke at your townhouse, you never said this.”

“John, do you honestly think that I would trust your wife enough to reveal Sherlock’s vulnerabilities to her? Jim Moriarty could not manipulate the required information out of me, and he was the best. It takes at least a Holmes to bring down Mycroft, John.”

“And now you think a Holmes has Sherlock,” John said.

Mycroft rubbed his tired eyes. “Who else would be capable of luring Sherlock away?” He stood up. “I assume you would like to help?”

“Of course.”

“Baker Street. Now.”

Billy and two more men were waiting for them when they reached 221B. Mycroft introduced John to Melas and Porlock – the former, an MI6 Agent, and the latter, one of the ring-leaders of Sherlock’s Homeless Network.

“Any news?” Mycroft asked.

Melas nodded. “Cardiff is most likely.” He held out a paper to Mycroft. “List of properties in and around Cardiff that have been traced back to Holmes, Moriarty, Frost and Mason.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and nodded. “The Holmes estate.”

John heard a chopper.

Mycroft smiled grimly. “Our ride is here.”

XXX

By the time they reached Cardiff, Q had confirmed Mycroft’s estimate of Sherlock’s location.

“Isn’t it a bit too obvious?” John asked Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled. “Ford would appreciate the irony. Besides, it is unlikely he would harm Sherlock at this stage. He is not the one Ford hates.”

To John’s surprise, no one stopped them as they walked through the front doors of the Holmes estate. Wiggins stayed outside. Porlock and Melas went off in opposite directions.

John and Mycroft were greeted by an elderly butler, who, shockingly, seemed to be fond of Mycroft – if the massive hug and a cry of “Master Mycroft!” was anything to go by. Even more shocking, however, was the scene that awaited them when they were shown to the drawing room.

Sherlock and an older man sat at the tea table, sipping tea and talking quietly. The man could only be a Holmes; the resemblance to Mycroft and Sherlock was apparent. He had the same mercurial eyes the brothers shared, and he had a head full of auburn curls. He stood up when he noticed the new entrants, and John realised he was even taller than Mycroft.

“And the cavalry arrives,” Sherrinford Holmes said, making a grand sweeping gesture. “Hello, brother dear.”

Mycroft was pale as death.

John rushed to Sherlock. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” he asked urgently.

Sherlock shrugged. “I am fine, John.” He shot an accusing glance at Mycroft. “You really are slipping, _blud_. It took you three days to figure out I was gone? Or perhaps you knew and didn’t care?”

Mycroft closed his eyes. Sherrinford laughed.

“You know, Mikey,” the oldest Holmes said. “I always knew there was something fishy about your attachment to Lockie. Too obvious a vulnerability for someone like you.” He laughed. “But he really is entertaining. I can see why you’d want to keep him around.”

Sherlock winced. John regarded him solicitously. Mycroft stared at his little brother for a long time before turning to his older brother.

“It is best not to torture your little brother if you want to keep him, Ford,” Mycroft drawled.

“Oh, good, you got that,” Ford said in a singsong voice, an echo of Jim Moriarty’s cadence. Ford Holmes was much more sinister, however, with his towering height and deep baritone. “Lockie is quite a delight, you know? Makes the most delicious, stoic little noises when whipped.” He pulled Sherlock to him and looped a possessive arm around his waist.

Sherlock bit his lip and closed his eyes. John and Mycroft exchanged a worried glance. Sherlock was injured.

Ford smiled widely, patting Sherlock’s back. “It was quite touching, actually. For the first twenty four hours, he firmly believed big brother would swoop in to rescue him.” He turned and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “Then he realised he had a bigger big brother perfectly willing to accept him for who he is, rather than inhibit him at every turn.”

“And I shall make an appropriately arduous apology to him later,” Mycroft said, his voice cold and controlled. “Sherlock is not the naïve little idiot you think him to be, Sherrinford.”

Ford pushed away the detective. “Well, you can have him back now; I’m done with him. I just wanted to know why my little Jimmy adored him so.”

Mycroft didn’t even glance at Sherlock. John took his hand, though. Sherlock’s fingers tapped out a message on John’s palm.

“Yes, my condolences for your loss,” Mycroft said flatly. “It must be difficult to lose a child.”

Rage contorted the oldest Holmes’ face for a few moments before he laughed again. “Indeed. You would know, wouldn’t you, brother dear?”

Mycroft shrugged. “What do you want, Ford?”

“Really, Mikey,” Ford said, shaking his head. “You always were an idiot, but this is positively imbecilic. Do you not know what I want?”

Sherlock snorted.

Mycroft glanced at John. John nodded.

“Come on, Sherlock,” the doctor said quietly. “Time for us to leave.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“For once in your life, William, do as you are told,” Mycroft snapped. “This is beyond your comprehension. Get out.”

“Come on, Mikey, don’t be a spoilsport,” Ford said. “Lockie is still the curious little boy I remember, diving face-first into everything.” He reached out and ruffled Sherlock’s hair affectionately. “Aren’t you, little brother?”

Sherlock leaned in and soaked up the affection like a cat. Mycroft’s shoulders slumped.

“All right, Ford. You have won,” he said tiredly. “What do you want me to do now?”

Ford regarded the British Government critically. “You actually care for him,” he said, sounding surprised. “Really, Mikey. You utter idiot, did you not learn a single thing I tried to teach you?”

Mycroft smiled unpleasantly. “You will find, brother dear, that I learnt much more than you wanted me to.” He turned to John. “Please take Sherlock home. I am certain Sherrinford and I will be able to reach a consensus.”

“No,” Sherlock said loudly.

His older brothers stared at him, identical expressions of annoyance on their faces.

“Sherlock, you are in over your head. Go,” Mycroft said, exasperated.

Sherrinford stared at his younger brothers, clearly irritated. “Do you two ever stop bickering? My God, the noise! You are still the pests you were thirty years ago!” he yelled.

John couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. Sherlock grinned. Even Mycroft’s lips twitched.

“Sorry, Mr Holmes,” John said, gasping. “But that’s what little brothers are for.”

“And you’d know, would you, you moron? When you have done nothing but annoy your older sister enough to drive her to drink?” Ford snapped at John.

“Shut up,” Sherlock shouted.

Ford smirked. “Oh yes, the little soldier fellow that is your pressure point. Sherlock, you really do disappoint me. I wish I had brought you up; you could have been so much more.”

“If you had brought him up, he would be dead or insane by now. Look at what you have done to your own sons – one dead, one insane and one just murdered his wife!” John screamed.

“Enough!” Ford roared. “Do you answer for each other now? Is it too much to ask for a civilised, grown-up conversation?”

John and Sherlock giggled.

Mycroft chuckled. “Brother dear, you really do expect too much.”

Ford whipped out a gun and aimed it at Mycroft’s head. He was furious.

“I had not expected the need to resort to such mundane methods to eliminate you, brother,” Ford snarled. “But this is too tedious and I have lost my patience.”

Mycroft arched an elegant eyebrow.

“Vatican Cameos!” Sherlock cried.

Several things happened at once. Mycroft’s ever-present umbrella came up in an arc and dislodged Ford’s gun. John pulled out his gun and shot Sherrinford cleanly through the shoulder. As Ford fell, Sherlock grabbed his phone and sent a few rapid texts.

Porlock and Melas appeared. “Secured,” they said simultaneously.

Mycroft nodded and glanced at his older brother, who had passed out.

“He’ll live,” John said. “So you should be able to get whatever information you need.”

Porlock and Melas carried Ford out.

Mycroft and Sherlock stared at each other for a long moment before Mycroft enveloped his little brother in a hug.

“I apologise, Sherlock,” the British Government said softly. “I have let you down yet again.”

“I know fieldwork is not your natural milieu,” Sherlock said, smiling. “But thank you for wading in.”

Mycroft shook his head. “We have much more to do. I doubt Ford’s plans would be foiled by something as minor as his custody.”

“Lucky that you have you have your dragon slayer back, then,” John quipped.

“Indeed,” the British Government replied.

“John,” Sherlock said, sobering. “We need your help.”

“You know you always have it,” John told him.

“It will be more dangerous than ever before,” Sherlock said.

John held up his hands. “All right, all right, you’ve recruited me, no need for more carrots!”

“Excellent,” Mycroft interrupted. “I am glad you have a plan, Sherlock, because I will not be able to assist you for a while.”

The doctor and the detective turned to face the bureaucrat.

Mycroft’s face was the colour of chalk and he was sweating profusely.

“I believe I am going into cardiac arrest,” the British Government said and collapsed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No doctors were consulted in the writing of this fic - and I'm not one, so I have absolutely no idea if synthetic hearts actually exist (or work, for that matter). Pacemakers are nice, though, aren't they?

**Author's Note:**

> Be kind! This is my first Sherlock fanfiction I'm daring to put out here...


End file.
